


wrapped in cold, late at night

by vtn



Category: Foals (Band), Mystery Jets
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-02
Updated: 2010-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:31:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He's like a statue so I'm the boy who does the footwork.</i> At a squat party in London, Yannis and Blaine get lost in the music together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wrapped in cold, late at night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous commenter on Livejournal who requested "the story behind [this picture](http://www.flickr.com/photos/guyeppel/2745621026/)". Title is from "If Things Were Perfect" by Moby.

He's like a statue so I'm the boy who does the footwork. Folded into a back corner, dark and silent as an Edward Gorey illustration, his hands moving like automata, drawing sweet magic from the records. I danced because I thought it would make him smile and I wanted to know if he could smile without his face breaking. I was the first to crack, shaking with a laugh while his cheeks turned red, the slightest sign he was impressed.  
  
He played an endless dizzy Can tune and while girls in long T-shirts twirled for boys in drainpipe jeans he quirked an eyebrow up at me. I couldn't hear my own voice telling him my name. The house was shaking. He reached up a hand. His handshake was stronger than I thought. His palms were warm but his fingertips were cold. Blue Bic scratchings laid the house's address over the ridges of his metacarpals. I rubbed at the letters with my thumb until they smeared.  
  
We kissed after an hour underneath a bold  _FUCK WAR_  in black paint. He smiled then, across my lips where he thought I wouldn't catch it.   
  
We danced, too, two legs blue, two legs black, two legs zebra-striped. A girl in a bandanna slipped me a pill and when I shut my eyes I dreamt of painting him all in stripes with that  _FUCK WAR_  black, matching the dark swath of his hair against his marble-pale skin. I tucked his hair behind his ear and kissed him there. He looked about him and shook his head, not caring who was watching, and kissed me hard on the mouth, hands never straying from his crutches. The song was "Get Innocuous!" One of the monitors blew. The audiophiles cursed.   
  
Later we shared a beer and sang along with Joy Divison like it was karaoke night. He propped up his legs on my lap, legs like skinny wooden poles. When he laughed, I couldn't even hear him but I saw his red mouth peel back from his teeth, saw his head dip back. I caught him before he hit the wall, his messy curls thick and coarse in my hand. This time his smile didn't leave him. I licked his lips because they looked so much like candy.   
  
We fucked in a toilet, his thin voice stammering out, "I bet you've never been with a boy like me" before he awkwardly pulled down his jeans. I asked him if he told that to everyone and he turned bright pink and said he did; I told him he's right, but not for the reasons he's thinking. He put that grip of his to use and my dick was already dripping when I worked it into a condom.   
  
By the the sun peeked over the tops of the apartment blocks I was sobering up and he was back at the decks in his stocking feet, playing classical music at half speed with layers of reverb, the DJ in everyone's dreams. I didn't sleep, I just listened, and I watched a spider spin her web in the exposed rafters.  
  
I saw another smile from Blaine when the police came round and turned everyone out. A cheeky smirk, no teeth; the music was still playing in his headphones; the party was still going on.


End file.
